


Sisters of Eden

by dismalzelenka, SassholeNuts, Vesania94



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types
Genre: Avvar Culture and Customs, Bards without names, Gen, Orlesianing, a dude gets eaten by a wildcat, clandestine sisterhood, daggers with names, fade manipulation, mountain kitty, non elfy elf
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-08
Updated: 2018-03-08
Packaged: 2019-03-28 13:48:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,177
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13905315
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dismalzelenka/pseuds/dismalzelenka, https://archiveofourown.org/users/SassholeNuts/pseuds/SassholeNuts, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vesania94/pseuds/Vesania94
Summary: A lowlander born Avvar huntress, an Orlesian bard without a name, and a Fereldan Circle mage terrified of her own power find themselves drawn together in unlikely circumstances by a prophecy millennia in the making. The only hints to their shared purpose lie in hidden pockets of the Fade and in the way their memories begin to jumble together as they are reunited.The mage-templar war has thrown Thedas into chaos, gods long dead are stirring in their tombs, and three sisters find strength and purpose in each other as they work to unravel the prophecy before the very fabric of reality comes down around them all.A collaborative three-way self insert (sort of) by a trio of writers convinced we're actually sisters separated at birth. Welcome to our golden trash pile. We love that you're here. :)





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Chapter written by dismalzelenka. :)

The cold was particularly biting that day. Ingrid knelt reverently in the snow, bow in hand, settling her forehead on the ground and kissing the frozen earth. A stiff breeze stung her stomach

“Mountain Father, watch over this hunt,” she whispered, tightening her grip on her bow.

A twig snapped to her left, and she whirled around instantly, arrow nocked and ready. Instead of the ram she’d been expecting to wander into her berry-laden trap, she saw only her scrawny, mousy-haired younger brother, his bow slung haphazardly across his shoulder as he held up his hands in surrender.

“Haldir!” she scolded. “I thought Mother told you to stay home until that leg healed!”

“I wasn’t going to let my lowlander born sister out here by herself,” he mumbled, eyes lowered to the ground. “I didn’t want-”

Ingrid sighed and dropped the arrow back into her quiver, hooking her bow over her shoulder. “Oh, _mitt braedr,_ we’ve been over this before. I ceased being a lowlander when I was found by our Thane with a favor of the Lady around my neck. The gods have heard my prayers and accepted my gifts, and I am as much of this clan as you. You know this.”

“Ani says the Mountain Father-”

Her face wrinkled into something between a frown and a bemused grin. “Aye, and because Ani says it, it must be true, eh?”

“No, but-”

“Is Ani one of the Shamans?”

“No, but-”

“Does Ani commune with our gods herself?”

“No, but-”

“No buts, Haldir,” she said firmly, crossing the distance between them with a few strides and wrapping her arms around his torso, his bare skin warm against the exposed flesh of her stomach and shoulders. “I have nothing to fear from our gods but the consequences of my own rash behavior. _You_ , on the other hand, _mitt braedr,_ are still healing, and you crashing around the mountainside on that weak ankle is going to earn us naught but hungry bellies for the night. Go home,” she shooed. “Let Mireja take care of you the way an older sister _should_ when she’s not traipsing about the mountains looking for rams, hmm?”

Haldir paused, a worried expression on his face. “That’s not all,” he said finally. “She’s managed to stir up some of the others about you, too. They say you’re to blame for the scarcity this winter. They’re planning on petitioning the Thane to throw you out of the clan for good.”

Ingrid sighed again and kicked holes in the snow with her wool-wrapped feet. One of the wraps must have worn through somewhere, she realized as a pile of snow covered her foot and cold water trickled down her ankle. “Let them think what they want. I’m part of this clan. I have been since he took me in and gave me to our mother. I don’t care what they have to say about me.” She ruffled his hair affectionately. “Now go home, before you fall and make yourself useless to me for even longer.”

He stuck his tongue out at her. “You wouldn’t have brought that moose down without me and you know it.”

“Ah, yes, but look where it landed you.” She nudged his ankle with her toes. “Now go before a wayward nug trips you into a ravine and you’re left completely at the Mountain Father’s mercy.”

He grinned despite her words. “Just wait until I’m really back on my feet. You’ll regret those insults soon enough.”

“Is that a challenge, little bear?” Ingrid laughed. “Best heal then. We should have you at your best when I pummel you into the dirt.”

“You’re on.” Haldir grinned and lifted his bow, tipping it at her in salute before turning and limping back down the path toward the hold.

Ingrid sighed again once he was out of earshot and sat down on a nearby boulder. The sunlight felt cozy and warm on her bare shoulders. She never let her clansmen know how much the rumors bothered her, but here on the mountain alone, it was much harder to hold back the tears. It was one thing to antagonize her. She could defend herself. She’d been defending her own honor since the day she first picked up a sword and spear.

Haldir though. She shook her head and slammed a fist down on the boulder in anger. Haldir had followed at her heels from his first steps. How dare they come after her little brother to hurt her? The more she thought on it, the hotter her anger boiled, until she leapt to her feet, gripping her bow in fury. Ani would definitely hear about this, she decided.

A feral growl and a pained shout from beyond a copse of trees drew her attention. She nocked an arrow again and crept through the winter-wilted underbrush.

She stared incredulously at the sight. A grey and white mountain cat, ears flattened and fur fluffed out in rage, hissed at a man limping and brandishing a blade at it as he hurled angry curses. The cat left bloodied footprints with every step, and the man … the man wore the very distinct grey and black markings of Clan Iron Bear.

How dare they step into Hvitskottr territory and shed the blood of sacred animals? She steadied her aim and fired, watching as the arrow buried itself in the man’s leg with a satisfying thwack.

“That was a warning shot,” she growled, nocking another arrow as she stepped toward him slowly. “Leave our lands and perhaps the gods will show you mercy. If you decide to stay, I certainly won’t.”

He raised his hands above his head and scrambled back from her, hissing in pain as his leg painted a line of crimson into the snow. “Wasn’t my idea,” he groaned, backing into a tree with a wary eye still fixed on the irate mountain cat. “Was supposed to bring one back, but-”

“You wouldn’t be the first to underestimate them.” Ingrid stepped over him and leveled the arrow at his face. “Give me one good reason I shouldn’t leave you here to feed the beast.”

“Please,” he gasped. “I’m sorry, I never meant to-”

“Coward,” she spat. “You shame the Avvar people.” The second arrow pinned him by the arm to the tree behind him. A third through his lower torso ensured he wasn’t, in fact, going anywhere at all. She met the mountain cat’s yellow eyes and jerked her head at the man, who had begun pleading for his life in earnest. “He’s all yours, my friend.”

She turned and walked back through the trees, bow shouldered , ignoring the sounds of desperate screaming and flesh rending behind her. Her clan still expected a ram or two before nightfall, and one wayward Iron Bear wasn’t about to stand in her way.  

 


	2. Dame

The birds were chirping outside Chateau De Chalons. Sweet little song birds, the same gilded tune. Dame was bored. Jean was sleeping on his belly, ass pert and proud in the air like a Chevalier sword. Dame yawned in his face. He was deep in slumber; the time to ease a blade deep into his heart.

She leaned to retrieve her dagger hidden beneath the mattress. A masterwork. Silver Lady is the name. Her hilt depicts a woman in her most beautiful form: nude. Some sneer and look down their noses at the weapon, deeming her but a lecherous prize. Others envy the owner of such artisanal weaponry. A rare few claim the secret of the Grand Game is etched into its very blade. None of these are truths, however, just idle gossip.

She had stowed Silver Lady there early last night between the box spring and the mattress of feather down. Dame slipped away from the salon of wine and pretenders, of pretentious, feigned ennui. Jean caught on and followed, alion on the prowl, offering her a cure for boredom. Predictable. An idea brewed straight from a man's balls. She accepted. They fucked. Fun while it lasted, but not fun enough. Jean was an experienced Chevalier, but not an experienced lover. He lacked the knowledge that certain erogenous assets existed. He failed to find her pink pearl, merely anchored his ship into her harbor and stranded her at sea. That damned him in Dame’s eyes. It made her job that much easier. Turned out, it wasn't easy in the first place.

The bed creaked, loud. He groaned. Shit. She swiped Silver Lady anyway. The Lady made a metallic thring, quite telling.

"Dame, what are doing?" His voice was mellow, sleepy, but with an edge. He knew. She knew that he knew.

"Nothing, my sweet. Go back to sleep." Her accent is deep and gilded. Orlesian. It tinkers like bells and purrs like a lioness. She glanced at him over her shoulder. Blue eyes of steel. He looked unconvinced. She glanced back at Silver Lady in her hand. She felt him tense, then he spoke.

"The mirror tells me otherwise."

She looked up to find the gilded traitor on the vanity, and saw herself holding Silver Lady. She swallowed, saw him from the edge of her eye. Will he flee? Will he defend himself? Will he scream? She already knew the answers.

The dagger left her hand just as Jean bolted from the bed. He’s fast, but he didn't make it to the door.

“Help!"

The Silver Lady flitted through the air like a hummingbird possessed. He screamed as she pierced him in his back. A spine severing strike, straight through the heart. He turned, blood pumping from the wound. The gurgling sound of blood in his throat pricked her ears. His heart agape and spilling on the marble. He clutched it. His eyes dying with accusation still pinned to her like an arrow. She shook it off. She'll have a new plaything tomorrow. A sweet little songbird to sing for her until she tires of its tune.

Dame sauntered over to his prone body, her hips swinging, hands folded like lotuses. His eyes are glazed over, unseeing. His heart gives its final beat. The sigh of death. Ended. She retrieved the Silver Lady and her mask on the vanity. She inspected her face, powdered it, and placed the mask upon her face. It's a pretty thing in its simplicity. She pulled on the slip she wore her under her dress. No one saw the slip at the salon. Everyone saw the dress, however. It had to go. She focused on reality, tilted it. The dress vanished, tucked into some fold in the veil.

She heard footsteps. Someone was coming. Someone dainty and light on their toes. She gave herself one last look into the gilded mirror, and titavated her hair. The door swung open. She moved, on the windowsill, about to fly.

A maid scurried into the room. She saw the blood, saw Dame perched on the window sill. A gasp.

"Monsieur!"

A brief moment of shock, then it fades. A smile formed on the maid's lips. Interesting. Dame smiled back, silk curtains waving in the breeze. They smelled of blood and lavender. Orlais and its fucking perfume.

"Y-you killed him?" The maid asked. She didn't wait for a response . Her face contorted into perplexity and gratitude. "Who are you, mademoiselle? So I can thank you properly."

Dame dropped her accent. Her voice is odd, though it still sings. No longer gilded. Her tongue is silver. "You tell me."

The dagger flew, silver wings of lightning. She struck true. Bards didn't leave an audience to their song of stillness. Dame closed her eyes. She focused, felt the Silver Lady return to her hand. She opened her eyes to see the bodies, the blood gone. terrified. She focused, eyes shut tight. She screamed into the veil. She tilted her head, felt the world tilt too. When she opened her eyes, there was a field, snow crunching under her bare feet. biting at her face. blinded. She didn’t fit in gilded palaces. She wasn’t built for prowling with lions. Dame is silver and blue. A bird of the oddest feather dancing among plumage she traded for snow and fur and war. A predator that could be leashed and bought and bruised of her own volition. It wouldn't matter in the end. The mask laycold against her face. Feet frozen, red in the snow. Her slip waving like surrender in the wind. Silver Lady but a beacon in her shaking hands.

She tilted once more, upside down, falling into the down of her bed. Even then, it really wasn't her bed. It belonged to the brown elvhen woman sleeping on her side. Her snores were a blessing to hear. Dame smiled, weak, but still there. Her eyes, red and raw. She found herself crying. Dame turned her back to the woman, settled into the silk. She sat there and stared at her reflection in the mirror, the girl without a name. Had there ever been a one for who she saw? She was a dame and that was all she knew. 


End file.
